“And you’re certain you can’t be convinced otherwise?” the old man asks.
Livingston turns to him—and we finally get a close-up of the reclusive Mr. Parker, an antique crone of a man, his knobby head framed by the blue-gray sea behind him—and Livingston laughs. “No, no. Everything will be fine, I promise.”
The old man grunts in reply.
The camera swings back toward the lighthouse and is lowered. We catch a fleeting glimpse of Livingston’s knapsack hanging from his shoulder and then, resting on the ground at the foot of the entrance, a dirty white cooler with handles by which to carry or drag it. Livingston leans down and takes hold of one plastic handle.
“Then I wish you Godspeed,” the old man says.
The camera is lifted once again and focused on the heavy wooden door. A wrinkled, liver-spotted hand swims into view holding a key. The key is inserted into an impossible-to-see keyhole directly beneath an oversized, ornate doorknob and, with much effort, turned.
The heavy door opens with a loud sigh, and we can practically hear the ancient air escaping.
“Whew, musty,” Livingston says with a cough, and we watch his hand reach on-screen and push the door all the way open with a loud creak—into total darkness.
“Aye. She’s been breathing thirty years of dead air now.”
Livingston pauses—perhaps it’s the mention of “dead air” that slows his pace—before re-gripping the cooler’s plastic handle and stepping inside.
At the exact moment that Livingston crosses the threshold into the lighthouse, unbeknownst to him, the video goes blank. Entirely blank—with the exception of a time code in the lower left corner of the screen, which at that moment reads: 6:14pm.
“I’ll see you Monday morning,” Livingston says.
The old man doesn’t respond, simply nods and closes the door in Livingston’s face. The screen is already dark, so we do not see this; instead, we hear it with perfect clarity and finality.
Then we listen as the key is once again turned in the lock and the heavy chain is wrestled into place. After a moment of silence, the loud click of a padlock snapping shut is followed by a final tug on the chain.
Then, there is only silence…
…until a rustle of clothing whispers in the darkness and there comes the thud of the cooler being set down at Livingston’s feet.
“And so it begins, ladies and gentlemen, our journey into the heart of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. I will now climb the two hundred and sixty-eight spiraling stairs to the living quarters, lantern in one hand, camera in the other. I will return a short time later this evening for food and water supplies, after some initial exploration.”
We hear the sound of ascending footsteps.
“Originally built in 1838, the Widow’s Point Lighthouse is two hundred and seven feet tall, constructed of stone, mostly granite taken from a nearby quarry, and positioned some seventy-five yards from the sheer cliffs which tower above the stormy Atlantic…”
* * *
* * *
Video/audio footage #8A
(6:30pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
We hear Livingston’s heavy breathing and notice the time code—6:30pm—appear in the lower left corner. The rest of the screen remains dark.
“Two hundred sixty-six…two hundred sixty-seven…two hundred sixty-eight. And with that, we have reached the pinnacle, ladies and gents, and just in time, too. Your faithful host is feeling rather…spent, I have to admit.”
Even without a video feed, we can almost picture Livingston dropping his knapsack and holding up the lantern to survey his home for the next three nights.
“Well, as you can certainly see for yourselves, Mr. Parker spoke the truth when he claimed this place was in a severe state of ill repair. In fact, he may have managed to underestimate the pathetic condition of the Widow’s Point living quarters.”
A pause and once again we can envision Livingston turning in a slow circle, eyes adjusting to the shadows.
“But regardless of her haggard condition you can almost feel the sense of something alive here inside the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. The air is thick and stagnant, but it’s as if the stillness and the silence possess a kind of substance, a holding of its breath, if you will, a waiting.
“Reporters and readers alike have asked me for years what I consider to be the most powerful haunt I have ever visited. My response prior to this day has always been the infamous Belasco House tucked away in the hills of Upstate New York. It will be fascinating to see if my response remains the same after this weekend.”
A deep sigh.
“I believe I shall now rest for a moment, then venture upward to explore the lantern room and perhaps even the catwalk if it appears sturdy enough before returning downstairs for my food and water supplies. Once I’ve straightened up a bit and established proper housekeeping, I will return to you with a further update.
“I also promise to discuss the mysterious incidents I referenced earlier—and many more—in greater and more graphic detail once I have made myself at home.”
The sound of shuffling footsteps.
“But, first, before I go…lord in heaven…it’s but a solitary window…let us just gaze upon this magnificent sight for a moment.”
Livingston’s voice takes on a tone of genuine awe. The phony theatrics are gone; he means every word he is saying.
“Resplendent mother ocean as far as the eye can see…and beyond. The vision is almost enough to render me speechless.” A chuckle. “Almost.”
The time code disappears—and the video ends.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #1B
(7:27pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
Well, this is rather strange and unfortunate. After I last left you, I returned downstairs and brought up a day’s ration of food and water, then spent considerable time cleaning and straightening in preparation for the weekend. Once these tasks were completed, I settled down for some rest and to double-check the video footage I had shot earlier.
The first batch of videos was fine, if a little rough around the edges, but then I came to the seventh video…and discovered a problem. I was shocked to find that while the audio portion of the recording worked fine, the video portion appeared to have somehow malfunctioned once I entered the lighthouse. And I do mean as soon as I stepped inside.
I proceeded to check the camera lens and conduct several test videos, all with the same result—the audio function appears to be operating in perfect order, while video capabilities are disabled. I admit I find the whole matter more puzzling than troubling or unsettling, even with the rather bizarre timing of the issue.
Perhaps, something inside the camera was broken when the wind knocked it down earlier by the cliffs. Or…perhaps the otherworldly influence that is rumored to dwell here inside the Widow’s Point Lighthouse has already made its presence known. I suppose only time will tell.
In the meantime, this Sony—hear that, folks, Sony—digital voice recorder will serve my purpose here just fine.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #2B
(8:03pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
Just in case inquiring minds want to know what else I have inside my knapsack, let’s do a quick inventory of its contents.
* * *
(Sound of zipper opening)
* * *
Let’s see. We have two changes of clothes. Clean socks. An old deck of playing cards. A flashlight. Two rolls of toilet paper, which I pray I won’t need. Imodium pills please work your magic. A set of utensils: fork, spoon, butter knife. Salt and pepper shakers. Deodorant. Toothbrush and toothpaste. Tissues. Hand sanitizer. Eye drops. Chewing gum. Toothpicks. A paperback collection of George Orwell essays in case I get bored. And, of course, my Sonyyyy voice recorder, which I am using right now to record this.
And that’s it. Nothing hidden up my sleeve, folks.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #3B
(8:36pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
Good evening. I’ve just taken my first dinner here in Widow’s Point—a simple affair; a ham-and-swiss sandwich slathered with mustard, side of fresh fruit, and for dessert, a thin slice of homemade carrot cake. Next I finished organizing my copious notes.
Now it’s time for another brief history lesson.
Earlier, I referenced more than a handful of disturbing incidents that have taken place in and around the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. I also promised to discuss in further detail many of the lesser-known tragedies and unexplained occurrences that have become part of the lighthouse’s checkered history. In time, I will do exactly that.
However, for the sake of simplicity, I will first discuss the three or four most recent and widely-known stories involving the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. I will do so in chronological order.
I referenced earlier the 1933 mass murder of the entire Collins family. What I did not mention were the gory details. On the night of September 4, 1933, lighthouse keeper Patrick Collins invited his brother-in-law and three local men to the lighthouse for an evening of card playing and whiskey. This was a monthly tradition, so it did not prove particularly troublesome to Patrick’s wife, Abigail, or their two children, Delaney, age twelve, and Stephen, age eight. As often was the case, they spent the evening in the adjacent bedroom playing board games and reading.
One of the men whom Patrick invited that night was a close friend of his brother-in-law’s, a worker from the nearby docks. Joseph O’Leary was, by all accounts, a quiet man. A lifelong bachelor, O’Leary was perhaps best known in town as the man who had once single-handedly foiled a bank robbery when the would-be robber ran out of the bank and directly into O’Leary’s formidable chest. O’Leary simply wrapped up the thug in a suffocating bear-hug until the authorities arrived.
According to Collins’ brother-in-law and the other two surviving card players—Joshua Tempe, bookkeeper, and Donald Garland, fisherman—the night of September 4 was fairly typical of one of their get-togethers. Collins and Tempe both drank too much and their games became sloppy and their voices slurred and louder as the night wore on. On the other hand, the brother-in-law ate too many peanuts and strips of spicy jerky, and as usual, there were complaints voiced about his equally spicy flatulence. O’Leary was his quiet, affable self throughout the evening, and if any one observation could be made regarding the man, it was agreed by the others that O’Leary experienced a stunning run of good luck during the second half of the game.
By evening’s end, a short time after midnight, the vast majority of the coins on the table were stacked in front of O’Leary, with a grumbling Donald Garland finishing a distant second. The men shrugged on their coats, bid each other goodnight, descended the winding staircase in a slow, staggered parade, and returned to their respective homes and beds.
All except Joseph O’Leary.
When he reached his rented flat on Westbury Avenue, O’Leary went directly to his kitchen table, where he sat for just over an hour and composed the now-infamous, rambling, handwritten letter explaining that earlier in the night, while taking a break from card-playing to visit the bathroom, he had experienced an unsettling—though admittedly, thrilling and liberating—supernatural occurrence.
To relieve yourself in 1933 in the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, you had to descend to what was commonly (albeit crudely) referred to as the Shit Room. Once you found yourself in this isolated and dimly-lit chamber, you tended to do your business as quickly as possible for it was a genuinely eerie setting and not designed for one’s comfort.
It was here, inside the Shit Room, that O’Leary claims the ghostly, transparent image of a beautiful young woman wearing a flowing white bed-robe appeared before him—at first frightening him with her spectral whisperings before ultimately seducing him with both words and embrace.
Afterward, O’Leary returned to his friends and the card game in a daze. His letter claimed it felt as if he had dreamt the entire incident.
Dreamlike or not, once O’Leary finished composing his letter, he rose from the kitchen table, took down the heaviest hammer from his workbench, returned to the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, where earlier he had purposely failed to lock the door behind him as was usually the custom, ascended the two hundred and sixty-eight steps—and bludgeoned each member of the Collins family to death in their beds.
Once the slaughter was complete, he strolled outside onto the catwalk—perhaps to rendezvous with his ghostly lover now that the task she had burdened him with was complete—and climbed over the iron railing and simply stepped off into the starless night.
O’Leary’s body was found early the next morning by a local fisherman, shattered on the rocky ground below. Shortly after, the authorities arrived and a much more gruesome discovery was made inside the lighthouse.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #4B
(9:41pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
It occurs to me that, in lieu of the malfunctioning camera, I should probably take a few moments to describe my surroundings here inside Widow’s Point, not only so that my potential listeners can form an accurate picture inside their minds, but also so that I can do much of the same in the months ahead when I sit down to compose my book.
Picture, if you will, a three-story structure waiting for you at the top of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse’s long, twisting staircase. Many years ago, when the lighthouse was still in operation, the staircase first opened into what was known as the living quarters, a surprisingly spacious and comfortable area usually divided into a master bedroom, a smaller second bedroom, a sitting room, and a functioning kitchen, which included a narrow dining table.
All such amenities have long been removed from the Widow’s Point Lighthouse and now what remains is a cluttered storage area of the most disgusting nature. Mildewed cardboard boxes stuffed with crumbling books and newspapers, stacks of rotting timber and rusted metal rods, ancient corroded gear shifts the size of automobile tires, decaying empty fuel barrels and dust-shrouded, turn-of-the-century pieces of ruined furniture cover almost every square foot of this level. Perhaps, most disturbing of all, is the pile of mold-streaked mannequin limbs that lay tangled together in one dark corner. What in the world they are doing here I don’t even want to imagine. Oh, and one final note of discomfort: there are rats nesting here, I am quite positive.
Okay, onward and upward. Located on the next level, in what was traditionally known as the Watch Room or Service Room where fuel and other supplies were stored and where the lighthouse keeper often stood watch, is my home for the next three nights. While this singular room has been cleared of most of its clutter, it does not appear to have actually been cleaned in nearly a century. The wood-beamed floor is covered in a filthy film of dust and grime and littered with rat droppings. Immense spider-webs decorate the walls and drape the scattered pieces of old furniture. From my current vantage point, if I look to my right, I see an antique dresser that would be worth five-figures were it in acceptable condition. At the base of it, on the floor, sits my sleeping bag, knapsack, and other supplies. If I glance to my left, I find a coffee table that may actually have a sliver of life remaining within its warped surface. Behind it, on the wall, a previous Widow’s Point visitor has carved their initials into one of the support beams: DC. I can’t help but wonder who this DC once was: Man? Woman? Child? Were they happy here in Widow’s Point? Were they frightened?
And finally, if I gaze straight ahead, into the deep shadows stretching to the far side of the room, I glimpse the dark yawning mouth of the staircase.
Taking that final stretch of stairway to the highest level of the lighthouse, I would reach the glassed-in housing of the lantern room. Encircling the lantern room is Widow’s Point’s infamous catwalk, scene of so many unexplained and tragic occurrences. Constructed of cast iron, this elevated walkway is said to offer the grandest seaside view in all of Nov
a Scotia, perhaps the entire Eastern seaboard.
And with that tantalizing tidbit, ladies and gentlemen, your tour of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse is now complete.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #5B
(10:59pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
It’s late and I can barely keep my eyes open. I’m rather exhausted from the day’s events, so I bid you all a fair goodnight and pleasant dreams. I pray my own slumber passes uninterrupted, as I am planning for an early start in the morning. Exciting times ahead.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #6B
(4:51am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
(Mumbling)
* * *
I can’t. I don’t want to. They’re…my friends.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #7B
(7:14am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
Good morning and what a splendid morning it is!
If I sound particularly rested and cheerful for a man who has just spent the night in a filthy, abandoned, and reputedly haunted lighthouse, it’s because indeed I am. Rested and cheerful, that is.
Trust me, folks, I’m as surprised as you are.
My night didn’t begin in very promising fashion. Although I tucked myself into my sleeping bag and dimmed the lantern shortly after eleven o’clock, I found myself still wide-awake at half past midnight. Why? I’m not entirely certain. Perhaps excitement. Perhaps trepidation. Or perhaps simply the surprising coldness of the lighthouse floor, felt deep in my bones even through my overpriced sleeping bag. Even now there remains a clammy chill in the air.
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